It's Not The Fall That Kills You
by IseeButterfly
Summary: There was never a blood hunt. Raffe is elected Messenger, the war is over. Sometimes the right thing isn't what feels right. But they are legendary warriors, willing to make legendary sacrifices. They do not ask. They do not choose. A collection of scenes from a different ending. Raffe/Penryn. Ratings from K to M.
1. Chapter 1

_There was never a blood hunt. Raffe is elected Messenger, the war is over. Sometimes the right thing isn't what feels right. But they are legendary warriors, willing to make legendary sacrifices. They do not ask. They do not choose._

 _A collection of scenes from a different ending. There will be more. Raffe/Penryn. Ratings will vary from K+ to M._

* * *

He is standing at the front of the formation, his wings white against the dark trees behind him. His gear is gleaming in the afternoon sun, contrasting beautiful with his skin, his hair.

It hurts to look at him. She blinks to fight against the burning sensation in her eyes.

He doesn't look at her the entire time he gives his people orders, nor do any of the other angels pay attention to the small group of humans that have gathered to witness their exodus. There are the representatives of humanity, at least right now, and though Penryn never wanted anything but save her family, she knows that she has to be here. She stopped being just a teenage girl, when she called the people to join her on the Golden Gate Bridge.

When the first groups of angel's spread their wings and take off in perfect formation, Raffe finally turns to her. His face betrays nothing, but he cocks his head, barely noticeable, in the direction of the forest.

She follows him as he walks stiffly into the woods, leading her out of the other's hearing range. Finally, he stops and turns to her.

At first, neither of them says anything, but their gazes are heavy with emotions. Sadness, relief, confusion, and the lost hope that comes with the finality of the situation. He is Messenger. The apocalypse is over. Their journey together has come to an end.

"Guess it's time to say goodbye," Penryn croaks, clearing her throat and wishing her voice didn't shake so damn much. "For real this time."

Raffe steps closer to her, close enough that she feels the heat radiating off of him, but he doesn't touch her. Penryn tries to smile, but it ends up looking like a grimace.

"This is the painful part, but I'm glad you won. You'll be a good Messenger. Especially since you won't order your people to genocide humanity. I hope. And isn't it ironic?" She smiles again, and this time it actually hurts to say the words. "All this time we couldn't be together because of your world's rules, and now that those rules are gone, we can't be together because you won't be here anymore.

He reaches up and cups her face, tilting back her head to press his forehead against hers. "If it wouldn't throw my entire race into anarchy and doom your planet, I'd give it all up and stay with you. I would." He sounds almost desperate, his eyes closed tightly as if he doesn't want her to read the emotions in them.

She closes her eyes and lets their breaths mingle between them, concentrating on the feeling of his forehead against hers. Neither of them knows how much time has passed, when they pull their heads back, though Raffe's hands don't release her face.

"Don't forget me," she says half-jokingly, though there is much truth in her words. He's ancient. Infinite. How long will it take for him to forget that little daughter of man that travelled with him for a few weeks.

A sound issues from Raffe's throat, something between a croak and a strangled sob.

"I will never forget you. I will never stop thinking about you." His eyes roam her face, savoring every detail, the way her hair flutters in the wind, her dark eyes against her pale skin, lips red from biting. It hurts to look at her, she's that beautiful. She is right for him, he knows it. Knows that he has to turn his back on the one thing that ever made him genuinely happy.

"You are the best thing that ever happened to me, Penryn Young." He whispers and then leans down and kisses her. He pulls her against him and holds her close while their lips move against each other, dancing a slow, mournful goodbye. They stand like that for a long time, gripping each other tightly in the dark wood, for the last time feeling like they're the only ones in the world. They both allow themselves to believe it for one minute longer, but reality catches up with them eventually.

Raffe pulls back and their last kiss is over. There are so many things unsaid between them, but neither of them speaks. There's nothing they can say to make this any easier.

Raffe turns and walks away, out of the forest, to the edge of the tree where he'll follow his brothers back home. This legion is the last one to go. It's over.

Penryn stays on her spot and watches him until his dark form has disappeared between the trees. The warmth of his body slowly fades, and there's no way to bring it back. It's over.

* * *

 _Finals are coming, folks, and it's not pretty. I just wrote this down as it popped into my head, to get some creative relief and because I didn't want to keep you waiting. I will of course still continue Black Night, White Light, in fact I've been almost finished with the next chappie for a long time, but well, you know how much I despise editing. Since these will be drabbles and fragments, not so much editing, so it's quite relaxing and fun to just sit and write and post. I hope you enjoyed, please don't be a ghostwriter and review.  
_

 _-K._


	2. Chapter 2

_It's still there_ , Raphael marvels, his thumb brushing slowly over the grooved hilt of his sword. The thread of snow-white yarn and black hair is barely palpable under his calloused skin, but it _is_ there and it is still whole. How such a fragile thread has survived the massacre at the old aery, the blood hunt and even the Pit is beyond him. But here it is, adorning his sword. "For luck," he whispers to himself, closing his hand around the hilt, his eyes squeezing shut briefly as a stab of pain wells up in his chest.

"Your Grace."

He turns around, the vulnerable moment gone, to face the owner of the timid voice. One of his assistants, a wiry angel with canary wings and pale skin, bows under his gaze.

"Come in, Camael," Raphael says, bothered by the formalities his new role invoked. Camael straightens and clears his throat. "I have news from the Secretary of State."

Raphael frowns. He has personally appointed the office to Thermo after his election, certain that he is much more trustworthy than the old bearer, and up until now none of his men have bothered with the formalities of communicating by messenger. "Why doesn't he come to speak to me himself?"

Camael swallows and shifts on his spot. It isn't a sight Raphael is unused to – long before his election as the Messenger, his position and reputation ensured the respect and humility of other angels. "I don't know, Your Grace. I am to let you know that a date for the first Union banquet has been set. It is to take place in 29 days from now in the earthen state of California. He would like to meet in the following days to discuss the details."

"A banquet? On earth?"

He is well aware of the fragile blossoming of a diplomatic relationship between his people and humankind and obviously a meeting would have to take place sooner or later, but for some reason the news come as a shock to him. _Union banquet. Earth. California._ Involuntarily, his hand tightens around his swords hilt, and he thinks he can feel the thread of garn and hair cutting into his palm. He hates the deviation his mind automatically takes, the question this occasion immediately evokes in him, even though there are so much more pressing matters at hand. _Will she be there?_

* * *

"The purple one, definitely!"

Penryn catches her sister's excited look in the mirror. She smiles at the younger girl. For Paige, the most important thing about this night is the color of a dress. Penryn can't remember what it's like to worry about something like that. She runs her hand along the exquisite silk material of her dress, numbly aware that it is worth more than her entire wardrobe altogether. She takes a deep breath to calm herself.

"Are you worried about tonight?"

Penryn turns to her sister, once again marveling at how good she was at reading people, despite her young age.

"I am," she admits. "I mean, I knew I would have to be there, seeing as I'm part of the council, and we've been assured multiple times that everything will go smoothly, but… it's a difficult situation."

"Because angels don't like humans?"

"And humans don't like angels. Currently, there's a truce between our nations, but there are many negotiations that need to be carried out, and it's not like either side has forgotten about the war. If anything, tonight is about putting on a show of diplomacy…" Penryn breaks off and rubs her forehead with a groan. She was about to slip into a rant, and though her sister might be unexceptionally mature for her age, there is no way she could play the role of a political adviser to her.

She smiles and sits next to Paige on the bed, tucking a strand of black hair behind the smaller girl's ear. "But at least the food's going to be great. I heard they brought in the best chefs still alive in the States. The council sure wants to put on a good show for our visitors."

A loud car horn interrupts them. Penryn stands up and glances out of the window at the street, where the twins' post-apocalypse van is waiting. What a glamourous carriage for the occasion.

"Okay, sweetie, I have to go," she says and slips on her shoes. "Be good and listen to mom. I'll be back tomorrow."

Penryn leans down to give her sister a quick hug. Paige kisses her on the cheek, her lips rough from the scar tissue. They linger a moment longer, both drawing strength from each other's touch, but all too soon Penryn straightens and heads out of the door, the moment of peace over.

* * *

"What about the alcohol?"

Penryn leans forward on the backseat, holding onto the front seats as Dum steers the car over the road at a breakneck pace.

"Nothing but the best. The wine is exquisite. Though I didn't think you were a connoisseur." Dee said.

"You know what I mean," Penryn hisses anxiously, her nerves pulling tighter the closer they get to the hotel the banquet is to be held in. "The last time a horde of angels got together and drank alcohol, they completely lost it and ripped every human in a two-mile radius apart just for fun. One drunken warrior is enough to cause dozens of deaths."

"Both sides have assured that no harm will be inflicted on someone of the other species. Should someone misbehave, both sides will take immediate measures."

"All we have to worry about is shaking a leg on the dance floor."

"Very funny," Penryn mutters.

"Oh, it's no joke," Dum says good-naturedly and veers the car to the left to avoid crashing into a stray car on the side of the road. "The representatives are expected to dance with each other as a show of respect and diplomatic arse-licking."

Penryn falls back into her seat, stunned into silence. A dreadful feeling settles in the car, the air thick with tension. The rest of the drive, no one says a word.

* * *

She shouldn't have been surprised. With all the decadent parties at the old aeries, angels feasting on things they had taken from the humans, she should have expected that her people wouldn't let that insult sit and match the angels' excess with an equally decadent binge. Still, it is unreal to see people dressed in fine gowns and suits, waiters passing through the crowd with trays of champagne or refreshments, when outside people are scrambling for shelter and scraps of food outside.

Even more unreal is to see angels mill among humans, their unnatural beauty clashing with the imperfect complexions of the people around them. There is no open hostility, but air crackled with tension, muscles pulling tight and jaws setting whenever humans set eyes on the visitors. The angels, on the other hand, seem to barely conceal an aura of boredom and arrogance, as though this entire thing is beneath them. Penryn supposes it is, though she knew that it isn't their business to disobey direct orders, and so naturally, when their Messenger demands of them to lay down their weapons and put on an act of respect, that's what they do.

 _The Messenger_. She is still unable to connect the word with Raffe, with the angel she's travelled with on the road, carrying his wings wrapped in a dirty bundle and living on nothing but instant noodles and cat pebble. It seems impossible to her that the guy she's fallen for so helplessly, with whom she'd lost herself in heated kisses and stolen touches, was now the single leader of this nation of demigods.

Her belly clenches in a sudden surge of grief, and she has to swallow against the bitterness welling up inside of her. So far, she hasn't seen him, and has desperately tried to avoid thinking about the moment when she will, but if she's honest with herself, it has constantly been on her mind since she'd learnt about the banquet.

She grabs a flute of Champaign from a passing waiter and downs it in an attempt to clear her thoughts and numb herself against the sorrow she knows will come when she sees him again, distant and unreachable, not hers at all.

The evening continues on and she lets herself drift with the blur of it, shaking hands and forcing smiles when she was supposed to, sticking to the twins' side for a lack of alternatives.

When she finally sees him, all her preparations, the mantra she'd repeated in her head the whole night – _it's for the better, for all of us, for the better, for all of us_ – might as well have been for nothing, for all the good they did her. The sight of him, cruelly beautiful in an all black suite that contrasts his snow-white wings, is like a slap to the face, startling and painful at the same time. But with the pain, which she expected, comes a confusing surge of happiness and that somehow makes it hurt even worse. She clenches her fists against the yearning that roars up inside of her, fighting to regain control over her facial expressions, while he doesn't so much as look at her. _I'll never forget you_ , he'd said, and she wondered if there was any truth left in that statement now. She knows he didn't lie to her. He believed it himself at that time, but they haven't seen each other in weeks, months, and maybe he has come to his senses by now and realized what a fool he'd been for ever falling for her. It would be for the better, she supposes, make things easier, but it still hurts horribly to think he could've forgotten her that easily.

Then, when he's done exchanging words of greeting with McHall, the guy that stepped into Obi's shoes after his death and has been serving as the makeshift head of the council since then, Raffe's eyes flicker over, straight toward where she stands, and their eyes meet for a moment. He looks away immediately, almost flinching from the sight of her, but she knows at once that he hasn't forgotten about her at all. As expected, there is no satisfaction in knowing.

* * *

"Well, this is going better than expected, isn't it?" Thermo asks as he and Raphael find a minute to retreat to the back of the room and talk quietly.

Raphael watches the crowd and nods a little. "It's not more of an act than any other political party. We've been through piece negotiations under worse conditions."

"Only we weren't doing politics then. We were those that lay waste to the land in case negotiations failed."

Raphael's lips twitch, though there is no humor in him. "Good times. But no laying waste to earth. You know the deal."

"Of course I do." Thermo leans back against the wall and tips the contents of a martini glass into his mouth. They are silent for several moments, before Thermo sets the glass down and throws a sidelong glance at his Commander. "Are you thinking about her?"

Of course Raphael knows who he is talking about, but he still looks at him with a blank expression, unresponsive.

"I know you've seen her already. And I know it effects you," Thermo says sternly.

Raphael stares at the crowd for several moments, unseeing, and Thermo thinks he won't answer, when he suddenly presses out, "I do. Think about her, I mean."

He can see her at the end of the room, looking small and forlorn at the side of those two scrawny teenagers from the Resistance camp. She looks gorgeous in a plum dress, falling softly down her body, catching on gentle curves and hugging tight around her small waist. He swallows thickly, his pulse drumming louder in his ears.

"Are you okay?" There is no judgment in Thermo's voice, no pity, just a sober understanding.

Raphael pulls his eyes away from her and looks at his Watcher, more to keep his mind from wandering off than anything else. He wants to say, _no, I'm not okay,_ wants to say that it hurts to see her, hurts to even be in the same room with her, knowing he can't touch her, see what he'll never be able to have. He's sick with longing and whenever their eyes meet involuntarily – they seem to both subconsciously seek the other out in the crowd – the feeling intensifies. "I'll live," he says dryly and turns away.

When they announce that it's time for the dances, his muscles pull taut, aware that not just he is expected to dance with representatives from the other side, but _she_ is, too. The thought of her in the grasp of one of his people, big, brute warriors that still itch with bloodlust and unfulfilled promises of subjecting the human race, is intolerable for him.

Thermo must read it in the hard lines of his face, or maybe in his fists rhythmically clenching and unclenching, because he says, "I will dance with her. She's done her deed if she held her own for two songs or so with an angel representative."

Raphael gives him a clipped nod. With Thermo, at least he doesn't have to worry about him changing his mind halfway through a song and deciding that it is more fun to break his dance partner's hands or worse. He doesn't want anyone touching her, but if it has to be someone of his people, better one his Watchers than anyone else.

Thermo strides over the dance floor toward her, and Raphael watches, seeing the recognition in her face as the large angel comes to stop in front of her. They exchange a few words and then she nods, seeming relieved herself. She puts her hand in Thermo's and lets him lead her to the dance floor. Her eyes sweep through the room and find him, and they look at each other for a few heartbeats before both avert their eyes.

* * *

He dances with one of the female council members, a lean woman in her mid-forties. She's not the worst company, at least she doesn't step on his feet and seems determined to push through this necessity as smoothly as possible. Neither of them is trying to force small talk, and that makes it easier. He lets his mind go blank, the way he so often did when forced to attend political events. As an archangel, this is nothing new to him. He runs through the motions without thinking, gracefully slowing his motions as the music fades out, thanking his partner as the dance comes to an end, leading her from the dance floor and saying goodbye.

He still isn't aware where his feet are carrying him until he is only a few paces away from Penryn, and he comes to an abrupt stop, his heartbeat picking up at once. She notices him, of course, and turns to look at him, startling at how close he is. He thinks about walking straight past her for a moment, but when his body sets into motion, he knows that's not what he will do. He simply can't push her away any longer.

"Dance with me?" he asks quietly when he comes to stand in front of her and puts his hand out to her.

She looks at him, a turmoil raging behind her eyes, but she takes his hand almost immediately, as if guided by force, and lets him lead her to the dance floor. He pulls her into position, gingerly placing his hand on her back, exquisitely aware of his thumb brushing naked skin where the cut of her dress sits low on her back. She shivers and they miss the first beat of the song.

He recovers and picks up the dance, guiding her gently to into the motions, and after a few awkward moments, she follows him into the rhythm and they move together.

"Do you enjoy the banquet?" he asks, his voice coming out huskier than he expected.

She throws him a quizzical look. "Does it look like I am?"

His lips twitch at her bluntness. "Not really, no."

Another couple comes a bit too close to them and he pulls her closer to his body to avoid a collision. She gasps softly. Even after the couple has moved out of the way, he keeps her close to him.

"You seem to be used to these kind of things," she murmurs. He can feel her breath brushing up against his collarbone.

"I am. Though I was never forced to sit through the entire thing. Back when I wasn't a diplomat, me and my men had all the freedom to leave whenever we wanted."

Her hand tightens on his. "Thank you."

He raises an eyebrow. "For what?"

"For keeping your word. Becoming Messenger, even though I know you don't want the job. For taking them away. I… thank you."

His hand shifts an inch up on her back, more of his palm brushing her bare skin and he feels goosebumps erupt where he touches her.

"It's a sacrifice I was and still am willing to make."

She nods and gives him a small smile. They look at each other then, really look, taking in each other's face, as if they were afraid of it before. His eyes roam over her face, dark eyes, red lips. "How have you been holding up? Are you okay?"

She nods again. "I'm fine."

He resists the urge to tip his forehead against hers. He is holding her close to him, but there is still space between them, a minimum distance required to perform the dance, and his body aches to close the gap and feel her body against his.

Instead he bents down as much as propriety allows him, and brushes his chin against her temple. "I don't think I've told you how beautiful you look tonight." In all the worlds, what had ridden him to say that? His voice is deep and dark and he is well aware that he is driving them both down the old road again, making everything more difficult.

She dips her face and doesn't respond, but he sees the flush of blood rise up her neck and into her cheeks and he silently curses himself, because now he feels even less restrained.

Maybe it's the music, the alcohol in his system, their bodies spinning around on the dance floor, that suddenly make him feel lightheaded, a tightness inside him loosening, just a little. He leans closer and breathes her in discreetly.

But all too soon, the music slows down, indicating the end of the song, and he can only pull her against him once more without evoking attention, before they have to step back from each other. He leads her from the dance floor back to the spot he retrieved her from, holding her hand a bit longer than necessary.

"Thank you for the dance," he says hoarsely, reluctantly letting go of her hand.

She forces a shaky smile and says, a bit clumsily "yes, thank you, too."

He stiffly turns away from her and makes his way through the room, back to the corner where Thermo is watching him with thoughtful eyes.

"Don't," Raphael bites out as he leans against the wall beside him. He doesn't need to hear that it was stupid, that he is behaving unseemly, that he is taking unnecessary risks. "I know," he says into the silence between them. "I know."

* * *

He swears he didn't mean to overhear it, swears he didn't even take a mental note of the room she'd stay in for the night when he heard her mention it to one of the twins, and maybe he really didn't at the time. But he knows now that some part of his brain must've remembered, carefully filing the information away for later – _for what?_ – because he is walking there now, carried on by a buzzing in his ears and the wine in his head and a thoughtlessness, though he knows that he's being foolish, foolish, _foolish_.

The elevator tings as it comes to a stop on her floor, and he walks into the hallway, as if it's already too late to turn back. He needs to see her, needs to talk to her. He knows that it was stupid to ask her for a dance, and he regrets it now, for all the wounds it tore open again, but now that he has stirred up so many questions, he needs to go back and make it right again, a clean cut. They had no time to properly say goodbye, not then and not now, and he feels like he owes it to her and himself, a chance to say what needs to be said, so they can go on their way and heal properly.

He comes to stop at her door, room _743_ , and he rasps his knuckles against it, once, twice.

It takes half a minute and then the door opens and she looks at him, shocked. "Raffe…"

He lets his hand fall back to his side and clears his throat. "Can I come in?"

* * *

 **Finals are called finals because when they are over, everyone only says "Finally..."**

 **And now I can say that, too, because, thank the lord, it's over and I have a life back. Yes, thank you university, I know you're there, but right now, I ain't got time for you! Anyway, I am back from my semi-hiatus and I hope you're all still there, because now I finally have time to write again! I made this chapter longer (originally wanted to split it) because of the long waiting time, so at least this is reeeeally long for a drabble (3,5 k words?). I hope you enjoyed and let me know what you think and if you want to know what happens in _le room._**

 **-K.  
**


	3. Chapter 3

She has taken her shoes off. Her naked feet pat over the plush carpet as she walks ahead in front of him, leaving him momentarily to rake his eyes over her backside, before he drops his gaze to the floor. Christ, the wine is getting to his head.

She turns around to look at him. Though there is a couch and a luxurious king size bed, she doesn't sit. She stands awkwardly a few feet away from him, wringing her hands and obviously not knowing where to look.

"Raffe-" she starts, but stops, probably hoping for him to cut in and explain. He doesn't. "What are you doing here?"

He kicks the door shut behind him and steps a bit closer, leaning against a cabinet to his right. He cocks his head. "Not happy to see me?"

She frowns. "You shouldn't be here."

"I know." He comes closer another step and she widens the distance between them again, stepping back. He sighs and rakes a hand over his face. "I know I shouldn't be here. It wasn't a conscious decision, I just…" _needed to see you._ The words hang in the air between them.

"So, aren't you going to offer me a drink?" He nods in the direction of the showcase in the corner of the room, holding various bottles of liquor and a dozen glasses.

"Falling off the wagon?" she asks dryly.

"It's courtesy. Not used to welcoming visitors in your room?" He smirks at her annoyed intake of breath, at the slight tint in her cheeks, but the question is not solely a quip. He wonders if there has been anyone since he left. She's gorgeous and sharp-tongued. Surely, there must have been men…

 _And why wouldn't there be?_

"What do you want?"

He shrugs out of his jacket, throwing it carelessly over an armchair, and follows her to the bar. He looks over the assemblage of bottles. "Whiskey."

She grabs a bottle with amber liquor and pours a glass. She raises an eyebrow when she sees his grin.

"That's not whiskey," he says and walks over to her. He holds the glass under her nose and swivels it to stir up the scent.

"How should I know what whiskey smells like?" She steps back from him again, as if to get away from the sharp scent of alcohol, but he knows that that's not the reason and it makes his chest ache.

His teasing smile sobers. "It's rum." He tosses the content of the glass back in one swig regardless, and puts the empty glass back down on the top of the showcase. It hits the glass surface with a clang.

"I'm seventeen," she informs him dryliy. "And my family sure couldn't afford to waste money on fancy liquor."

He reaches into the bar, his arm brushing hers not wholly unintentional. He pulls out a bottle of Lot No. 40 and fills two glasses halfway. "This is whiskey." He gives Penryn a glass and she takes it hesitantly. "And not a bad one."

He watches her take a tentative sip and pull a face. "Ugh, it burns."

He grins and takes a swig, not bothering to let the rich flavor sink into his palette. It's not the first time he's tried to get her out off his system with alcohol. But five glasses weren't enough at the old aery after their first kiss, and fifty glasses wouldn't be enough now. He's pretty sure he'd have to drink himself into a coma to stop thinking about her.

"So what are you doing here?" she asks again. "I'm pretty sure you didn't come here to discuss whiskeys."

He sighs and puts his empty glass down. He turns away and saunters across the room, to the large king-size bed in one corner of the room. He runs his hand along the soft covers. "We didn't really get a chance to speak at the banquet. How have you been holding up?"

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees her coming closer. "Okay, I guess. It's been stressful. Lots of post-apocalyptic stuff to deal with. You?"

He looks up at her. Penryn is standing a few feet away from him, her arms wrapped around herself.

"Same deal. Being Messenger is no walk in the park, I tell you that." Suddenly feeling a wave of exhaustion coming over him, he sits down onto the mattress, suppressing a weary sigh at the softness beneath him. It's like he can finally let go off his guard and show some vulnerability now that he's here. It's damn exhausting always having to watch his back and ensure his people's respect and obedience. Especially after all the rumors about his stay on earth. With her, there's none of that.

"What would you have done, if…" she hesitates, her expression torn. She knows that there's no point in asking. "If you wouldn't have had to become Messenger?"

Raffe stares sullenly against the wall for a few moments, the wine-rum-whiskey mix making his head buzz. He looks up at her, meeting her dark, thoughtful gaze. "You know what I would've done."

They look at each other. For a time, neither of them says a word, the only sound the muffled noises from the banquet several floors below them. "I miss you," he finally says.

Penryn sinks down onto the mattress next to him, sweeping her hair back with both hands. Her eyes are unfocused, as if her thoughts are far away.

"I miss you, too," she says quietly, as if she's almost ashamed of it. When she looks back at him, her eyes seem lighter than usual. "Why did you have to come here, Raffe? Why can't you just keep your distance? Is it so easy for you to just walk away from here? Do you know how much it hurts to be left again and again? I just…" she stops right before her voice cracks and takes a deep breath.

His pulse is pounding in his ears, his chest tight with an ache that he only ever feels around her. Something of longing and regret. He's so sick of always feeling this way, of always being the one to turn away what he wants. She's right. He shouldn't have come here. She doesn't deserve this.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come."

He wants to get up, but she grabs his hand and stops him, glaring at him. "Don't do this. Don't come here only to leave again, only to leave me with nothing but an apology that won't fix anything." Her eyes fill with angry tears. She lets go off his hand and visibly struggles for self-control. "I just… I don't know what I'm thinking anymore. I just want to take a break from myself. Everything is so different than it used to be and everyone is looking at me to make things better, and I don't even know… _God, I just don't know_."

He reaches out and catches her chin in his hand, turning her face to him. "Do you think it is any different for me? Christ, do you really think that I'd forget you that easily, that I don't spent every waking minute thinking about what could've been, what I left behind?" His voice rises against his will, his despair finally leaking through his words. "I meant what I said to you that day. I've never felt so…" He struggles for words, something that he's not used to. "So free with anyone but you. Fuck, you're not even from my world and still you seem to get me better than anyone else. I think that you're just right for me, just _goddamn_ perfect in fact, but I can't have you and some other lucky bastard will eventually be in my place, and I just can't-" He stops.

 _Don't._ He tries to tell himself reason.

 _You're more than tipsy and you're going to far. Get up. Leave._

Maybe his face gives him away, or maybe she really is just too good at reading him, but she seems to sense what's going on inside him, because she grabs his arm. "If you leave now," she whispers, angry and determined despite her moist eyes, "after saying those things to me, then you can't come back. I can't do this every time I see you. I can't."

He stares at her, his brain desperately trying to work against the buzz of alcohol and emotions, trying to come up with the reasonable response. It's a one-way ticket, one that he knows he should take. Only he isn't that much a coward.

So instead of doing the _right_ but absolutely cowardly thing of getting up and leaving her behind forever, he slips his arm around her waist and pulls her into an embrace. His face finds the crook of her neck, the feeling of holding her like this familiar from the one time he held her on the beach. He rests his forehead against that soft, warm curve of her neck, and feels the tension seep out of her body. "I would never forgive myself for leaving like this," he whispers against her throat. She sifts her fingers slowly through his dark strands, brushing against the nape of his neck, and he wonders who is holding up who at the moment. If anything, he is drawing as much comfort from their embrace as she is.

"Christ, look at us," he mutters dryly when they finally pull apart. Her lips quirk in a small grin at the look of his face.

"Who knew that even you could look disheveled?"

"But don't tell anyone. That would sully my reputation and I might have to kill you then."

She snorts. "Oh, I'm shaking in my boots. Pooky bear would never hurt me and I'm pretty sure I'd kick your ass in a fist fight."

He smirks at her. The mood is lighter suddenly, freed of something heavy after they've both spoken their emotions, and it feels so good to just banter with her like in good old times. "I don't see any boots here." He bends down and grabs one of her dainty bare feet. "I don't think you could kick anyone's ass with that tiny little feet of yours." He tickles her sole with his fingers. "Though you could try to distract your opponent with those cute little toes."

She yanks her foot back with a laugh and he wishes he wouldn't notice how the movement makes her dress ride up a few considerable inches on her thighs. "I always knew all angels were foot fetishists."

"Insolent little-" he is cut off abruptly as she throws a loose punch into his stomach and successfully shoves him off the bed. If anyone else would've done that, he'd put them in their place none too gently, but sitting in a disheveled heap on the plush carpet, hearing her pearl of laughter from above, all he can feel is a juvenile, careless joy that he hasn't felt in a long time.

Which doesn't mean that he'll let her off the hook lightly.

"Oh, you'll regret that," he growls and jumps up from the floor to tackle her on the bed. The moment of surprise, combined with her light weight, works to his advantage and he manages to pin her beneath him on the mattress, quickly locking her hands in a strong grip to keep her from landing another blow to his stomach. "You see? You'd never stand a chance."

Penryn smirks at his remark, jerking her legs up and twisting her hips and before he knows it, she has flipped them around and is kneeling over him, pinning a knee against his chest and holding the edge of her palm against his throat in imitation of a knife. "Check mate," she says triumphantly. "You'd be dead in a real fight now, birdbrain."

He grins and folds his arms behind his head. "I was going easy on you. Plus, you've always been a dirty fighter."

"You like it," she shoots back.

He pushes up onto his elbows and the movement sends her falling back, astride his stomach, a position he finds very hard not to get excited about. "I do," he murmurs quietly, spurred on by adrenaline and alcohol.

He sees in her eyes that it registers with her how the tone of his voice changes, how a husky note steals into his words. There's a flicker of longing in her eyes - and that's really all the confirmation he needs – before she takes a deep breath and braces herself to pull away. Before she can move, he sinks a hand into the hair at the back of her head and brings her face down to his, pulling her mouth against his with demand. She's still for a moment as he kisses her hungrily, holding her breath.

 _It's miraculous, really,_ he marvels as she slides her arms around his neck and kisses him back with desperation, _how quickly resolve can crumble. Are we really that weak?_

His palms glide up the curve of her back as she arches against him, drawing a gasp from her once his fingers brush naked skin where her dress is cut low, and he presses his hand down on her hot skin, feeling her shoulder blades shift under his touch. He is keenly aware of her erratic breath pushing her chest into his, her fingers sifting through his hair almost painfully tight, her soft tongue brushing his as he explores her mouth. She is moving against him in a way he's not sure is wholly intentional, but fuck, it feels good and he certainly doesn't want her to stop. His hand in her hair drops to her thigh, onto bare skin beneath the hem of her dress. He groans into her mouth and it seems to spur her on.

Raffe pulls his mouth from hers and bites her chin at the keen sound she makes in protest. He runs his tongue along her pulse point in her throat. Tugs on her earlobe with his teeth, then kisses her lips again, groaning as she nibs his tongue as payback. He grabs her hips and flips them around, her slender body bouncing against the mattress as he moves over her.

One could think it is all his doing, all him losing control, and while he's certainly been the first to crack, it's _her_ who grips his face and draws him back to her when he wants to pull away to look at her, it's _her_ who slides a knee between his legs.

The kiss turns deep and dark.

Penryn has pulled his dress shirt out of his pants, crumpling the expensive fabric as she pushes it up, fumbling to open the buttons.

He has both hands on her thighs now, palms sliding up the soft skin until the skirt of her dress bunches over his wrists and his hands curl around her hips. There is a certain questioning quality to the gasp that she emits between kisses and all he can do is swallow it with another kiss, because he doesn't have an answer. He has no idea what they're doing, where they're going.

 _Christ, I shouldn't even be here._

But his thumbs hook into the elastics of her panties anyway, and she lifts her pelvis against his in response all by her own. They shift against each other, her thighs coming around his hips as his hands tug her underwear down her legs. It would be so easy now, and they are so close to it, so little left before they could lose themselves in each other completely. Raffe drops his mouth down her neck and over her right clavicle, shifting his body lower, while his hands slip to the insides of her thighs to encourage them to open wider. He certainly didn't expect to spent the night with his face between her legs, but he sure as hell isn't complaining. But Penryn pushes herself up onto her elbows and grabs him by the arm.

"No." He lifts his face from her stomach to look at her at the stern sound of her voice. She is breathless and disheveled, but her expression is torn. The straps of her dress have long slipped down her shoulders and the neckline hangs dangerously low on the swell of her breasts and it sobers him suddenly, how she looks, how they both look, clothes half torn off and pupils blown in mindless lust. He realizes that in a haze he dragged off her underwear and suddenly feels sick with himself. What was he thinking? That they'd have a short fling in a hotel room, only for him to leave her in the morning to go back to another world? That he could just pull away a few layers of clothes, take her quick and unceremoniously, and then go back to his own room satisfied? What must she think of him now? That that's the reason he came to her room in the first place?

He feels disgusted with himself. The last thing she is for him is a hotel room affair that he picked up after an exhausting political party.

Penryn seems to be thinking something similar. "It's not that I don't want… it's not that I don't want you. I do. But not… like this." She is stammering, clearly still trying to get her wits about her. At least she had the wits to stop before they threw all caution out of the window.

 _Because you clearly couldn't get a grip on yourself. Why DID you come here? Why can't you just let her go?_ He feels like kicking himself.

He lifts himself off of her and does up the buttons of his shirt, shame burning beneath his skin. She straightens herself as well and sits up next to him, sweeping her dark hair back from her face.

"Raffe, I'm-"

"Penryn, you have no reason to apologize. I drank too much and I lost control and I'm glad that you at least stopped before we went too far."

"Spare me your regret." She basically spits out the words and he looks up at her, startled. "I wasn't going to apologize and I'm sick of hearing your excuses. This isn't the first time something like this has happened, so you might wanna start owning up to the fact that we want each other – want each other _a lot_ – and that's not going to change no matter how many times you deny it."

He opens his mouth to say something, then stops and mulls over her words. "You are right." He drops his back against the headboard of the bed with a sigh. "I… Yes, I want you. I've wanted you for a long time and I've done plenty of things to let it out only to lie to your face all over again. But this isn't all about sexual desire. You know that. That's never what we were all about. And I'm glad you pushed me away before I let alcohol and hormones take over completely and hurriedly threw myself into something that… that would mean a lot to me."

She sighs and pulls a pillow into her lap, her anger seeming to wilt out of her. "I guess these things are not something that can be controlled and thought-through. We seem to loose ourselves in the heat of the moment at times and you and I both know that it feels good. So good." Her lips quirk up into a tentative smile and her eyes meet his. "But yes. It would mean a lot to me, too. And I don't anything to happen like this."

"Tipsy and in a hotel room," he mutters and closes his eyes in shame. He wonders when he became such a jerk.

"No. Hasty and uninhibited, with you leaving as soon as reality catches up."

Raffe opens his eyes to look at her again. She holds his gaze, her lips pressed into a thin line. She's good at this, he thinks, good at bracing herself for being left by someone who she cares about. It makes him feel infinitely sad.

He reaches out and takes her hand in his. Penryn interlaces her fingers with his, scooting closer to him on the bed.

"Do you want me to leave?"

She shakes her head. "Can't you just stay? Just stay here for tonight and… _be_ here?"

"Of course I can." He lifts an arm. "Come here."

Penryn nestles against his side, into the embrace, and he wraps his arms around her and scoots them both down the headboard into the heap of pillows. He draws the duvet around them and Penryn places a hand over his heart on his chest. He caresses her hair.

For a long time, neither of them says a word. There are still muffled sounds coming from the banquet several floors below them, but they both ignore them, just listening to the sounds of their breathing filling the room.

"I don't regret coming here tonight," Raffe murmurs against her hair eventually. Penryn's hand tightens into a fist over his heart and she curves her body closer against his side.

"I don't regret it either. I'm glad."

"You think it will make it even harder to say goodbye tomorrow?"

She tilts her head up to look at him. He caresses a strand of hair out of her face. "It's not like it was easy before."

He smiles, but it feels more like a grimace. "No, it certainly wasn't."

Penryn lifts herself up to press her lips against his softly. He reciprocates the kiss gently, cupping the back of her head to bring her closer. When they break apart, he keeps her face close with his hand in her hair, tilting his forehead against hers. "I wish it could be like this all the time."

She closes her eyes and takes a shaky breath. "Me too."

He nudges the tip of her nose with his and she settles back into his arms, resting her head on his chest and her palm over his heart. They stay like this, forgetting for a short period of time about the _can't-bes_ and _what-ifs_. He stays for the night to watch her fall asleep in his arms like in good-old-times.

And he just holds her. For tonight, he just _stays._

* * *

 **Wow, it's been _so long_ since I worked on this, but since this always was sort of my little drabble fic, where I would just let off steam and write whatever comes to my mind, and I was so busy this past year, I guess I didn't get around to it. It felt so good to just load of some Raffryn drabble again, I just enjoy writing and letting the words flow out without worrying too much about heavy editing or plotting etc.  
Also, I wanted to thank everyone who reviewed this (or any of my other) fanfiction. I love reading your thoughts and I am especially surprised (and happy) that so many of you seem to enjoy this one, since it's basically just a writing let-out for me, in contrast to Black Night, White Light, which is heavily plotted and edited and thought-through. And I know that it sometimes can take a while for me to update, so I'm infinitely grateful for all of you who stick with me and still give me feedback 3 I'm on this site almost every day and read pretty much every new fanfiction that pops up in this fandom, so don't think I wouldn't read the messages you're dropping for me ;)  
**

 **Please let me know what you thought of this chapter, I would really love to hear your thoughts on it!**

 **Hope you enjoyed!**

 **~K.**


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